Turning And Turning In The Widening Gyre The Falcon Cannot Hear The Falconer; Things Fall Apart; The Centre Cannot Hold; Mere Anarchy Is Loosed Upon The World, The Blood-Dimmed Tide Is Loosed, And Everywhere The Ceremony Of Innocence Is Drowned; The Best Lack All Conviction, While The Worst Are Full Of Passionate Intensity. Surely Some Revelation Is At Hand; Surely The Second Coming Is At Hand. The Second Coming! Hardly Are Those Words Out When A Vast Image Out Of Spiritus Mundi Troubles My Sight: Somewhere In Sands Of The Desert A Shape With Lion Body And The Head Of A Man, A Gaze Blank And Pitiless As The Sun, Is Moving Its Slow Thighs, While All About It Reel Shadows Of The Indignant Desert Birds. The Darkness Drops Again; But Now I Know That Twenty Centuries Of Stony Sleep Were Vexed To Nightmare By A Rocking Cradle, And What Rough Beast, Its Hour Come Round At Last, Slouches Towards Bethlehem To Be Born?